


All the rage

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, girl!Chester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dress and Chester - two things that Sam got bored of and left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the rage

Chester wanders through the living room, headed for the kitchen; the black chiffon of his dress brushing his knees as he walks, his feet thumping heavily along the floor in his mud splattered army boots. I watch as he opens the refrigerator, reaching in deep and pulling out a bottle of beer. One of the straps of his dress falls down to hang against his arm, the entire garment being tugged lop-sided as he moves.

 

I say, “Dude.”

 

He strokes his stomach with one hand and asks, “Do you like my dress?” he says, “It was Sam’s.”

 

The dress and Chester - two things that Sam got bored of and left behind. Nobody wants to have to deal with this kind of awkwardness. Nobody wants to have to deal with this. Period. So I took him in. This isn’t an emotion thing, oh no. This isn’t me feeling sorry for a friend.

 

I am a rock. I am a fucking island. And right now this rock, this island is  _tired_  of this bullshit. I just nod sadly and say “Sure, Chaz.” I say “I love your dress.”

 

He’s such a mess. This is exactly how I would end up if I hadn’t grown up under my father’s roof. Having your foreskin removed at birth pretty much immediately shows your place in life. Seriously, since before I could even talk I’d been condemned to live a life where I’d never be quite as happy as other people.

 

For real; my father pretty much decided that looking after my fucked up mess of a best friend was how I was going to spend the rest of my life.

 

The deal with Chester is; he’s been told one too many times that nobody wants him around. Somebody once told him that nobody needs him and he believed it. Right now, it’s partially the truth. Sometimes I worry that I’m going to have to start wiping his ass for him soon and even if you tell yourself that the person in front of you is your best friend and you’d do anything, touching faeces always makes you rethink the situation.

 

He was fine, happy. We all knew he and Sam had been having problems, arguments that had become the way they got through their day. We all knew they were only holding onto each other for Draven, that it was their son they were in love with, not each other. Then he showed up on Mike’s doorstep one night, his eyes red from crying and his body shaking. Down the phone line Mike said “He’s in physical pain, man. You’d think he’d been stabbed.”

 

What had really happened is Sam had kicked him out. She told him to find his own place for the night. The next day, she said, he could come back for his things and then he was to never step foot in their home again.

 

Down the phone line Mike sighed, “He can’t stay here. Anna won’t let him. You know what she’s like, dude. She had my dog put down for trailing mud into the living room and we all know Chester isn’t as tidy as he likes to think he is.”

 

I said, “I’ll come get him.”

 

It’s been a year since I drove over to Mike’s a helped Chester into my car. He wouldn’t stop crying long enough for me to ask him any questions and, even now, he won’t tell me what went on. The minute I bring up Sam he walks away, his ass swaying within the material of whatever woman’s outfit he is wearing at the time.

 

Today is the black chiffon dress.

 

And the army boots.

 

Upstairs, in his closet, there are rows and rows of cocktail dresses, fitted shirts, halter tops. Yesterday we ate Chinese takeaway, me in my worn jeans and shirt, him in his matte jersey gown that accentuates his curves. Tennis skirts, curvy jeans, gypsy skirts, gothic tutus.

 

The wardrobe of an eighteen year old girl equipped with tasteful outfits for all occasions.

 

Mike said “Take him to a therapist.”

 

I said “ _You_  take him.” As if I could possibly afford Chester’s therapy bills  _and_  food. I’d rather dine with a crazy person than starve with a sane one.

 

Chester rummages through a drawer until he finds a carton of cigarettes. I used to ban smoking in the house, but then Chester decided he was afraid of going outside and, really, you just don’t question a crazy person. He crosses one arm over his chest, resting his elbow his hand and letting the cigarette dangle between two of his fingers. Staring at me hard he says “Sam  _loved_  this dress.”

 

This is going somewhere. I know it is.

 

He picks his beer up from the counter and drinks it slowly, setting down the half empty bottle. Or half full, depending on your outlook on life. He says “Think she’d love me in it?”

 

The thing with the clothes. Chester doesn’t want to be a girl. He’d never get a sex change and he never wears makeup. One time he told me that, dressed like this, he could have something on common with Sam. He said “We could swap clothing advice and talk about shoes.” As if that would repair their broken marriage.

 

Flopping down in a chair at the kitchen table I say yeah, yeah she’d love him in it. I say “it’s sexy.”

 

“You think I’m sexy?” Chester grins and takes a long drag off his cigarette, watches the smoke twirl upwards towards the ceiling. Thoughtfully he murmurs, “Do you want to have sex with me, Brad?”

 

I used to. When we were still Linkin Park and he was screaming his lungs out on stage, sweaty and passionate and oh-so-fuckable. But now…in his ratty chiffon dress and old army boots, his hair dirty…now he has the complete opposite effect on my dick. There’s nothing attractive about him.

 

I say, “I...” I always was a man of many words.

 

And Chester, he takes a step closer to me. He smiles and there’s a sparkle of the old Chester there, the happy and reasonably sane Chester. And he takes another step. And he straddles my lap.

 

And...and...

 

And here’s me trying to push him away but I really don’t have the heart. He looks down at me, broken and sad

 

I whisper “I don’t.”

 

For a moment he looks lost, his brown eyes shining with tears and I already regret my answer. Taking another long draw off his cigarette Chester nods slowly, blows smoke in my face and smiles. He says “Okay,” pushes himself off my lap and drops his cigarette into his discarded beer bottle on the table. “Beauty is on the inside, Brad.” He says as he breezes out of the room, his army boots going thump, thump, thump on the parquet floor.

 

*

 

When I come home clutching overloaded brown paper bags full of groceries, Chester is sitting on the couch wearing a strapless, baby pink cocktail gown - the kind that relies on the wearer’s breasts and hips to keep it on her body. The bones inside pull the dress in tight around Chester’s waist and the material hangs loosely around his non-existent hips. It’s safe to say that he doesn’t have the figure for this dress but I’ve seen him in it a thousand times before so I say nothing.

 

“A little help, Chaz?”

 

No response. He’s been like this since I told him I didn’t want to have sex with him. By ‘like this’ I mean he’s been acting like a hormonal teenage girl. He thinks I can’t hear, but I know he cries himself to sleep at night.

 

“I was really handsome there.” He says.

 

I have no idea what he’s talking about, all I know is I’m not getting any help with the groceries any time soon so I shuffle carefully into the kitchen and set the bags down on the counter. Wandering back into the living room I ask, “Where?”

 

He points a finger at one of many faded Polaroid’s he has spread out on the low coffee table in front of him. He does, I agree. We were on tour and we were all tired as hell and we all wanted to go home but Chester still managed to smile and pose for the camera.

 

“I miss this,” he whispers when I sit down beside him. He picks up a photo of a figure slumped over a keyboard, scribbling in a notebook and touches his fingers to it gently, murmurs “Mike…”

 

“You wanna go see Mike?”

 

“No...I want…”...

 

He starts crying again, then, burying his face in his hands and sobbing. Through his cries he sniffles, I want Linkin Park.

 

So do I. Thinking about it really hurts. It aches, the way old memories and guilt do. In my head I can hear the echo of the cries of the fans and Chester’s screams, I can feel the bass line pulsing with my heart and it’s hard not to cry, too.

 

I wrap and arm around his shoulders and pull him close as he sobs out “this is all my fault,” he says urgently, “I can be normal again!” He sits up and turns to look me right in the eye, “I can be. I’ll stop.”

 

He can’t be. He won’t. But it’s nice to think about. I cup his face and murmur “Some day, Chaz, some day.”

 

He looks pathetic and helpless, his hair falling in his teary eyes as he sniffles sadly. “Some day,” he whispers and smiles a little.

 

Like it could ever be that easy.

 

Like ‘normal’ will ever be a word that could be used to describe Chester again.

 

Like thing are ever going to change. Like I’m not going to be stuck babysitting him for the rest of my life.

 

Some days, when I wake up hung-over and Chester is wearing a ball gown and strappy heels that pinch his feet and are turning his ankles red, I just wish I had never gotten out of bed. But now, seeing him with his red eyes and his cheeks wet with tears I just wish I could make things better for him.

 

Days like this make me want to force Sam to take him back. I know I can’t do that.

 

So I kiss him, instead.


End file.
